


god's word

by silverscream



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, I couldn't help myself, also, bc riario breaks my heart every damn time, if you squint at the end, leario - Freeform, rly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7361545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverscream/pseuds/silverscream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and the devil was but a man</p>
            </blockquote>





	god's word

She is there, he realises. In the back of the room, behind his golden throne, behind what remained of his father. In a dark corner, filled to the brim with shadows not of his own making, there she lies, ebony skin and midnight hair, curled and curled in and around, like the wrenches in the heart of he labyrinth.

He feels the madness, the murderer rising and before he can shout a whisper of control, of sanity, of despair, a knife is thrown her way and he is panting, chest heaving, the grand chair thrown to the ground and he looks.

There are only shadows.

.

 

He is the Minotaur. Godsent punishment to mankind, a weapon forged in the fires of Hell and by the Architect's careful hand. 

There might have been a time, long ago, a nonexistent time when he'd been just a man. A man, a man and nothing more, a soul giving himself in God's hands, awaiting judgement. A man at peace. She had made him that man.

We do not speak her name.

For all the purposes of the world, the Labyrinth, and the Architect, she has no name.

But she does, a godawful, goddamned, lost part of his soul whispers. She has a name and a soul, and eyes that shine like blood in the shadows where he lies. Like blood, gleaming and screaming the names of all those he as killed. Like blood, dead and yet living, living in hate and anguish an despair, much like the man she'd loved.

That man slit his veins, cut his bloodlines and now rests at the bottom of the Tiber.

That man is dead.

And yet he is not.

.

 

It is dark in the centre of the Labyrinth. There is no roof, and yet the walls are tall and high and mighty enough for him to catch no glimpse of the sky. There was never a more clever prison, a more exquisite torture.

But it is no prison, it is no shame, it is an honour to serve the Labyrinth. He is the Minotaur, he is godsent, he is one. One.

If it is no prison, then why is he bound in chains? If these are no chains, then why does metal slither and whisper cold and dreadful against the battered scars on his hands? 

If it is no shame, then why does he close his eyes, cowering, and why does he hide himself in a corner, hoping against hope that a pair of dark eyes shan't see him?

A pair of eyes which bear no name of their own, only a whisper of his heart, a quiet, unheard whisper which makes him hate the name of God in his darkest moments. A whisper he tells no one of, a whisper no one knows of. Not even the Architect. Not even God.

.

 

This life of his, his life in the centre of the Labyrinth, awaiting tribute to judge by the grace of God, his life in the shadows which guard the secrets of mankind and the Heavens alike, this life is dull.

The scent and taste of the blood, the ever-flowing blood which courses through the stone paths, they make for uninteresting companions. With them comes an unbreakable monotony, a monotony of victims and men, dying and dead.

It drowns him an curdles his senses and his mind. For a few, uncountable, precious moments at a time, his mind breaks and through its shattered haze, he feels black eyes burning in the back of his head. 

When he turns towards them, towards her, his senses return and she is gone. 

As if she never were.

.

 

Lifetimes pass. He is the Minotaur, the monster in the darkness, the demon annointed by God to cleanse and judge the sins of men, a dark and vengeful angel.

She comes to him more oftenly. She is a shade with painted skin and sad eyes, a ghost no one pays heed to. She is invisible to all but him. If he is One, why is she here? Z- he stops, for there is no name. She does not exist, not truly.

Except there is a thud in his chest, the beating of a drum, slow and yet continous, ever growing, ever beating where there should only be silence. Silence and the Void, silence in the justice of the Lord. Silence in the name of the Labyrinth. And yet there is not, there is a heartbeat where there oughtn't be a heart.

The Minotaur conceals it, hides this sin from the eyes of the Architect in hope that its death will slowly follow. It does not.

Instead, it goes on and on and on. It's a song, he realises. A song with one verse, and then another, and another until he forgets where it ends, but recognises the beginning. Always one word, one word to start it all, much like a first Word spoken by God at the birth of the world. It is a word that moves the pieces of this mechanism, much similar to a machine a man with wild, wild and mad mind and trembling hands, twitching with the energy of creation would build. 

And this machine thuds and brings thought, heaps upon heaps of thoughts, bright light and startling silence, faces clear and yet lost in fog, faith, simmering and drowning faith, and sometimes it is far, far too much for his ruined mind to take in. 

It is always the same, though. It is a whirlwind of memories, he realises, memories once lost and now regained. Touches of guilt, strokes of remorse and the passionate caress of longing. Longing strong enough to gut a man whole, for he now knows, he is not One, the Labyrinth lied and their prophet, their weapon, their Minotaur at the very core of their creation, God's devil himself was but a man.

A man who'd once tasted dark skin and full lips, a man who'd felt redemption whispered in starry nights and choked the life out of the same eyes that had shed tears of laughter and pain and love for him. A man who'd once known hope and faith beyond belief, and desperation beyond the dark abyss of hell. 

And the Minotaur clings to that man, clings to that first verse, first word, four letters that had once made a beloved name. It is the name that opens his eyes and lips and mind for the first time in a eon.

Zita smiles just at the edge of his vision, all-knowing and mysterious and serene by the grace of God, dark hair and eyes glistening in what should be Heaven's light.

“Hello, artista.”

**Author's Note:**

> this show will forever ruin me. do leave me a thought :D
> 
> cheers


End file.
